


Good Old Fashioned Lover Boy

by Stackthedeck



Series: Adventures in Time [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Freddie Mercury - Freeform, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Mostly Fluff, Pining, Pre-Apocalypse, Queen - Freeform, The 1970s, the angst comes from the pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-15
Updated: 2019-06-15
Packaged: 2020-05-12 14:41:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19231174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stackthedeck/pseuds/Stackthedeck
Summary: What if Crowley met Freddie Mercury? What if they became friends? What if Crowley gushed about Aziraphale to Freddie? What if the song Good Old Fashioned Lover Boy is based of Crowley and his pining?





	Good Old Fashioned Lover Boy

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't read the book, so if Crowley has a canon relationship with Freddie Mercury then like please tell me because that would be so cool. I'm also not a die hard Queen fan either. All I know about the band and Freddie Mercury is from the movie and the songs. Basically what I'm saying is, please don't murder me Book fans and Queen fans. That being said enjoy the fic! I want to thank @agnosticofgod for beta reading this!

Crowley isn’t certain what kind of bar he finds himself drunk in. He most definitely didn’t know what kind of bar it is when he was sober. He’s not even sure why he’s getting drunk. Maybe it just feels good? No, this vodka is too strong for that. Maybe he likes being drunk? No, his head spins too much for that. Maybe he’s drowning his sorrows? Yes, that’s it. What sorrows is he drowning? Probably something heaven or hell related, definitely something Aziraphale related.

“Evening, darling,” drawls a familiar voice, “Can I buy you a drink?”

Crowley turns his head and sees a man with shoulder length dark hair. His bangs hover just above his eyebrows and his hair is blown out to a fantastic volume. His face is beautifully sculpted, a face perfect for a rock star. He wears s someting flashy that Crowley can’t tell if it’s a shirt or repurposed dress. He looks familiar but his head is too fuzzy to place him. He has the vaguest idea that he’s seen him at a concert. Then he realizes how he knows this guy. If he was sober, it would hit him like a bus but, he’s drunk so it hits him like ice cubes against his teeth. This is none other than Freddie Mercury. So that’s what kind of bar he’s getting drunk in.

“I’m afraid, I’ve already had too many,” Crowley whines, too drunk to realize he’ll be kicking himself tomorrow for shrugging off Freddie Mercury.

“Oh, sorry mate,” Freddie shrugs, “I figured you swung that way.”

“No, I definitely do” -Crowley hiccups- ”swing that way.” Freddie takes a seat next to Crowley and motions for the bartender to get two waters. “I’m just…” Crowley trails off, snaking his finger across the rim of his glass.

“Taken?” Freddie finishes. He takes away Crowley’s drink and replaces it with the water he ordered.

“Oh, Satan help me. I wish,” Crowley sneers. He takes a sip of water, recoiling when he realizes it’s not alcohol, but takes another sip anyway. Freddie chuckles at the strangeness of his behavior.

“So, who’s got your heart, darling?” Freddie takes a sip of his own water and leans against the bar. There’s something tempting about this stranger, but not in the usual way.

“This angel,” Crowley sighs, “he’s so helpless and kind and innocent and stupid!”

Freddie hums under his breath. “You’ve got it bad, darling.”

“I know!” Crowley drinks more water then pushes it away. “I want more alcohol.”

Freddie pushes the water back to him. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. How long have you been pining after this boy?”

“Almost six thousand years!” Crowley throws his hands in the air then slumps back into his bar stool.

Freddie chuckles, giving him the side eye. The number seems rather large and random too, but he knows that the patrons of such establishment can be rather dramatic. That’s what he came here for. And, of course, other things. “Is he...you know?”

“I haven’t a clue,” Crowley laughs, rubbing his face. “He’s all holier than thou, but I know that’s bullshit. He runs a bookshop in Soho, so surely he must know...things.”

“Soho, you say?” Freddie laughs. “You might just have a chance, mate.”

“I’d just hate to go too fast,” Crowley sighs, leaning his head on Freddie’s shoulder. “You’re a great listener and an amazing musician. You’re the only thing I listen to.” Crowley smiles, realizing how drunk he is. Freddie Mercury, his favorite human being, is right here and instead of smothering this man in compliments about his music or actually letting him buy him a drink, he’s blathering on and on about his crush. And if he hadn’t had one drink too many, he might actually care.

“What’s your name, darling?” Freddie grabs a napkin and scribbles his number on it.

“Crowley,” he answers, his face all scrunched up as he tries to remember. “Not Crawley, that was dreadful, had to change it.”

“Yes, I understand that quite well.” Freddie winks and shoves the napkin into the back pocket of Crowley’s jeans.

“Can I tell you a secret,” Crowley giggles, “I’m a little bit drunk.”

Freddie pats his shoulder and smiles. “I’m going to call you a cab, darling.”

The next morning, Crowley wakes with a headache, a weird taste in the back of his mouth, and fuzzy memories of meeting someone lovely at a gay bar. Upon finding a drink napkin with a number and Freddie Mercury’s autograph in his back pocket, he goes through all five stages of grief plus a few more that only demons and people who have been in love for six thousand years can experience.

“Freddie…” Crowley twirls the phone cord around his finger. “This is Crowley.”

“Oh hello, darling.” Freddie croons from the phone. “I trust you made it home alright.”

“Yes, about that,” Crowley laughs nervously, “We didn’t...do anything, right?”

“I have to say you have a fabulous mouth, darling,” Freddie drawls.

Crowley lets out a choking noise that has never been heard before and never will be again.

“I’m joking, of course,” Freddie laughs, “You were far too drunk, we just chatted.”

“Oh good.” Crowley uncoils and slumps against the wall in relief. “Chatted about what exactly?”

Freddie cackles on the other end of the phone, but it’s muffled, like he’s holding it away from his face. “I would love to continue our conversation now that you’re sober.” Freddie gives him an address and they exchange pleasant goodbyes before hanging up.

Crowley heals his hangover before going outside to find his Bentley miraculously (well, not miraculously, more demonically) parked in front of his flat. He hasn’t got any new music in two weeks, so all he has to play is Queen.

Even though his hangover is fixed, the details of last night are still fuzzy. When he gets to Freddie Mercury’s mansion he has to wonder what he could have possibly done to charm Freddie Mercury into giving him his phone number. Hell, he doubts most people Freddie sleeps with gets his phone number.

He saunters inside and is greeted by an army of cats. A faint guitar strumming and drumsticks creating an intense beat reverberate from the other room.

“Hello?” Crowley calls into the large house.

“In the sitting room darling,” Freddie’s voice calls from the room with the guitar and drumsticks.

Crowley walks in and sees not only Freddie Mercury but Brian May, Roger Taylor, and John Deacon. They all lounge on various sofas and chairs. Aside from the instruments and drumsticks, this appears to be a social call. Freddie smiles warmly when Crowley enters, but the rest of the band look at him with curiosity but mostly skepticism. Crowley freezes, not quite sure what he’s gotten himself into.

“Glad you could make it, darling.” Freddie flourishes his hand around the room. “I hope you don’t mind, the band was already over when you called.”

“This isn’t another one of your hookups, is it Freddie?” Roger glares at Crowley then quirks an eyebrow at Freddie.

“Oh heaven, no,” Crowley holds his hands up.

“We just chatted over drinks,” Freddie clarifies. He takes a seat on the sofa and a cat hops on to his lap.

“Are you trying to make him another one of your hookups?” John pipes in. He tunes his bass, pointedly ignoring Crowley.

Crowley glances at Freddie with skepticism but it’s laced with hope because no matter who you are, you want a piece of Freddie Mercury.

“No.” Freddie waves his hand dismissively and goes back to stroking the cat. “Although, I’d like to help him hookup with someone.” Freddie motions for Crowley to sit. “So, lover boy, tell us more about this angel.”

Crowley goes as red as a demon can, which by human standards makes him seem a bit pinker than usual. He is, of course, melting inside.

“Well,” Crowley coughs into his fist. “I’ve considered him a friend for as long as I can remember, but I’m not sure if the feeling is mutual.” Crowley disregards the strangeness of spilling his guts to his favorite band because, Satan, he needs someone to talk to. “Of course I love his friendship, but I want something more. I can’t have it, because I don’t want to lose him forever.”

“Well, you have to try something,” Brian chuckles, “although I have to say Freddie’s never invited someone over to give relationship advice.” He begins plucking a couple notes on his guitar.

“Well, I’m hardly the expert,” Freddie chimes in.

“I have tried,” Crowley whines, “Every time I invite him to lunch, he assumes it’s just a friend thing or for business.”

“Well where do you take him?” Roger asks.

“The Ritz!” Crowley shouts. “I even get the bill and he’s still like ‘this is strictly professional’ as if we’re not out at nine.” Crowley does a voice for Aziraphale with as much venom he can muster, which isn’t much.

“Oh that’s rough mate.” Brain adds a whistle to emphasize his point.

“You said he runs a bookshop, darling,” Freddie drawls, “perhaps you could write him something, a letter, a poem, a song!”

Crowley shakes his head. “And compete with Shakespeare, Oscar Wilde, and the like, he would think I’m joking.”

“Oscar Wilde and a place in Soho,” Freddie murmurs, more to himself than to Crowley.

“Do you have any wine, Freddie?” Crowley sighs. If he dwells on Aziraphale for too long, he needs alcohol, quite extraordinary amounts of alcohol.

“Of course, lover boy,” Freddie chuckles, “I’ll get a glass for everyone.” And he saunters out of the room.

With Freddie gone, the temporary balance that was stricten is thrown off and a tension falls.

“So, um, Freddie tells us you’re a fan,” John says slowly and awkwardly.

“Oh yes,” Crowley says, excited to jump onto anything that’s not his love life. “Of course Freddie’s vocals are amazing but the band really is about the harmony and experimentalism of so many different instruments and sounds.”

The band relaxes and smiles, happy to not be ignored by one of Freddie’s friends.

“I’m back darlings.” Freddie delivers a glass of wine to each person and sets the bottle down on the coffee table. The stuff isn’t as old as Aziraphale’s but it’s just as expensive.

The rest of the afternoon is spent sipping on wine and everyone getting a little too tipsy. The conversation stays mostly on music and thankfully stays away from Crowley’s angel.

Crowley and Freddie meet up for drinks every once in a while, Freddie begging for details on Crowley’s angel and is always disappointed when he hears the state of things. Crowley asks for details about the band and the latest music. Freddie responds vaguely then goes on and on about the boys who have caught his attention.

On the first day of May, Crowley gets a package in the mail with a letter and a cassette tape inside. The letter reads as follows:

_Dear Lover Boy,_  
_I know you can’t compete with the classical writers of old but perhaps I can. Feel free to listen to this with your angel, if he’s as great as you say, I imagine he’ll be head over heels._

_Yours truly,_  
_Freddie_

_P.S. keep this between you and the angel until the album is released, or I’ll be in trouble with the band._

The cassette tape is labeled Good Old Fashioned Lover Boy. Crowley finds his cheeks heating as he reads it and even more so when he listens to it. Oh Satan, he can’t let Aziraphale hear this. He couldn’t even imagine how the angel would react. No, it’s best to just let Aziraphale take things at his own pace even though it felt like they’re standing still. Crowley throws the cassette in a drawer and forgets about it.

Less than a month later, Crowley gets a call.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale’s sunny voice says through the phone.

“Hello, Angel.” Crowley sits on his desk, legs crossed.

“I was wondering if you’d like to get dinner tomorrow?”

“I’d love to.” Crowley restrains himself from pumping his fists in the air. “Is there a reason for this social call?”

“It’s not a social call. I just having something to discuss with you about the...arrangement.” Aziraphale whispers the last word as one says their first swear word. Aziraphale had of course said this word many times over the course of hundreds of years.

“Right,” Crowley tries to keep the disappointment out of his voice. “I’ll pick you up at eight.”

At 8:30 the next night, Crowley pulls his Bentley in front of Aziraphale’s bookshop. Aziraphale is disappointed, but not surprised, by Crowley’s tardiness. He pops into the front seat and tries his hardest to be mad at Crowley for his punctuality, but still gives him a cheery smile.

“I take it head office has you doing something unpleasant then?” Crowley starts driving, not speeding as fast as usual, feeling sorry for making Aziraphale wait.

“Let’s just save business till after dinner.” Aziraphale sighs. “I’m starving.” Of course, he isn’t because he’s an angel, but human mannerisms do tend to slip into conversation. “Where are we going, by the way?”

“Anywhere you want, angel,” Crowley responses. He can’t keep the slightest smile off his face, it’ll be nice to not talk business.

“How about Ritz?” Aziraphale smiles wistfully, probably think of the restaurant's desserts.

“All right by me.”

The two sit in silence for a moment.

“Mind if I turn on the radio?” Aziraphale’s hand hovers over the dial.

“Be my guest,” Crowley responds with a shrug.

“Now from Queen’s new album,” the radio blares, “Good Old Fashioned Lover Boy.”

“Oh, we can change the station if you’d like,” Crowley says, trying to hide the panice he’s feeling, enough panic to send a human into a heart attack.

“Oh but that’s the band you like,” Aziraphale smiles at him, only adding to Crowley’s panic.

The songs quite nice and Aziraphale seems to be enjoying it. Crowley has to remind himself over and over again that Aziraphale does not know the song is written about Crowley pining over him. Crowley’s eyes dart off the road every couple seconds, searching Aziraphale’s face for any sign of recognition. But no, the angel just looks cute, happily enjoying the song.

When the song finishes, they’ve made it to the Ritz and Crowley’s sure he’s in the clear.

“You know,” Aziraphale says, “that song ever so faintly reminds me of...something.”

“Oh yeah?” Crowley squeaks. This is where it all falls apart. Aziraphale is going to put two and two together and he’s going to ask questions. Of course, Crowley’s going to have to answer those questions, because he could never lie to Aziraphale. And then, they’ll never speak again.

“I just can’t put my finger on it.” Aziraphale shrugs then hops out of the car. Crowley takes a moment to process what just happened then follows the angel into the restaurant.

They have a lovely meal. Well, Aziraphale has a lovely meal, Crowley doesn’t eat. The two catch each other up on what they’ve missed since they’ve meet. Aziraphale talks of rude bookshop customers and a rare first edition of Oscar Wilde he’s come across. Crowley neglects to mention that he’s befriended the band Queen when Aziraphale asks him about his life. They agree to go back to the bookshop to talk business.

“Well that was lovely,” Aziraphale says once they’re back in the Bentley.

“But now, business,” Crowley sighs. He has one hand on the wheel and the other between the two seats. Aziraphale mumbles out an agreement but is look out the window contemplatively.

“Something on your mind, angel?” Crowley asks, taking his eyes off the road to glance at Aziraphale.

“I was just thinking…” Aziraphale pauses, looking at Crowley’s hand resting near his own. He wraps his pinky finger around Crowley’s own casually, his eyes looking straight ahead. “I liked that song from earlier, perhaps you could purchase it.”

“Perhaps,” Crowley squeaks, enable to keep his voice steady and the car on the road. It would be very disconvient to get discorperated in this moment.

Aziraphale keeps their pinkies interlocked the whole way home and seems a little disheartened when they have to part back at the bookshop. He doesn’t mention it once they get out of the car. They don’t end up discussing whatever miracle heaven needs Aziraphale to do, because Crowley suggests on a glass of wine. Aziraphale insist on a bottle or two.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! If you enjoyed, leave a comment or a kudos, it would mean the world to me! This is the first in a series called Adventures in Time where I play around with Aziraphale and Crowley in different settings and time periods! You can comment a time period that you like or think would be good for the ineffable husbands and I might write it!


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